Just a little "what-if" fic based a few years in the future, where Arya and Sansa essentially run Westeros's version of the CIA. Many thanks to my lovely beta, Lavinia!

Arya sat in a straight-backed chair, unmoving, eyes glazed over as she stared at the fire. The only other light in the room came from the window, where the lights of King's Landing wavered fitfully in the night air. Her right hand was empty, and in her left hand she held a goblet of Arbor gold. It was untouched. Nice as it was, she'd never developed much of a taste for the sweet southern wines.

Her memory trailed back to sharper, more biting drinks from her years in Braavos. She shook her head, the first movement she'd made in the last hour. It did not do to dwell on the past. It had been ten years, and she wasn't a child anymore.

Peace had only crept in the last 3 years or so. It had been tenuous at first, but it seemed that the wars and intrigues had finally settled down and she had a place once again. Her thoughts turned to her half brother, or she supposed really her cousin, though she had never been able to think of him that way. A king now, with his Targaryen queen. Arya approved of her. She seemed a woman who knew how to handle herself, unlike so many of the soft noble's daughters she saw nowadays in the court. Peace seemed to breed simpletons, as a rule. Arya's lip curled. If she ever had children, she vowed they'd be made of sterner stuff than the simpering court idiots.

Not that children were any possibility in the near future, she thought, letting out a small sigh. Sansa seemed prolific enough for both of them, honestly. Arya had lost track of the names of her million nieces and nephews. There had been another one last month, named after her. She'd told Sansa that was stupid, especially since it was a boy. But Sansa had just laughed and said her husband liked the name Arry. Arya had replied there was a reason she'd left Sandor to die in the woods when she was younger.

But Arya couldn't live Sansa's life, for all their positions at court were in the same vein. She'd never developed her sister's skill at duplicity. There were few enough who saw Sansa as anything but a beautiful lady. Everyone knew who Arya was, and what a visit from her agents would mean. Almost unconsciously, Arya's eyes drifted to the knives lying on the side table. They had already been cleaned, of course. She wasn't sloppy.

She rose from her chair, leaving the wine untouched on the armrest. Going to the knives, anyone watching would have sworn she exuded nonchalance as she picked up the smallest and absentmindedly stroked its edge.

She whirled her arm suddenly, flinging the knife behind her, towards a dark figure perched on her windowsill. He caught it.

She spoke without turning. "Sorrowful men? I admit I'm somewhat honored. I hadn't thought anyone was willing to pay that much."

The figure said nothing, only laughed quietly. It was a queer lilting sound, and Arya could swear she recognized it.

She turned to face her visitor. "Not a sorrowful man? Is this a personal matter then?" She squinted, trying to make out his features. He was tall and thin, she could see, but the windowsill's shadows obscured anything more precise than that.

No." He laughed again.

rya cocked her head. A name danced on the outer edges of her head, almost recognizable. She sat down, mentally shrugging. She'd accumulated a lot of enemies over the years. "Well, ser, I admit I don't truly wish to die right now. Care for some wine?" She lifted the untouched Arbor in his direction. "We can talk this over, perhaps come to an agreement."

he man at the window laughed again, irking her. What was so damn funny? She'd never had any taste for subtlety - that was her sister. She peered into the dark, hoping to recognize him.

Like a girl, a Man tends to disdain the sweeter wines." As he spoke, he swept off the windowsill and into the room with catlike grace.

And of course she recognized him. There were names that she carried with her forever, branded into a mind even as peculiar as hers.

"You again," she whispered.

He smiled his strange little smile, still the same after all these years. Deft fingers smoothed back a lock of hair, half white and half red.

"A Man, yes."

Their eyes locked for a moment. Arya looked away first, and dashed her wine goblet into the fire. The enamel made a satisfying cracking noise.

"I assume you're here to kill me."

He said nothing.

"I left ten years ago, Jaqen," she snarled. "I told the god my reasons, and he deigned to let me go. You're a decade too late, and I want nothing to do with you or your order."

He answered simply. "Valar morghulis."

She wished she had another goblet to throw. By the seven, did the man ever stop grinning? "Could you say something, actually say something?" She dimly noticed she was on the verge of shouting. "I'm not some child, Jaqen!"

He sighed and let the smile drop from his face. "A Man knows that. It is obvious enough."

Arya stiffened. What in seven hells did that mean?

"However -" He examined her knife, cleaning his nails with it. "Someone has taken a contract out on a…" He raised an eyebrow - "woman."

"And you're here to fill it?" It was odd, she wasn't scared. She felt only numb, with some unfamiliar feeling fretting beneath the surface.

His dark eyes were unreadable. "A Man volunteered, yes."

They were both silent for a moment. Then Arya casually palmed one of the blades from the table and spun to slash at Jaqen's neck. He caught her knife on the dagger she had thrown earlier, then grabbed her arm. With a flick of his wrist he hurled her against a bookshelf, which promptly buried her under a pile of tomes. Growling, she swatted loose papers out of the air and leapt up to rush at him again.

This time their struggle lasted longer. She almost nicked his throat but missed when he kneed her in the stomach. Pushing aside the urge to throw up, she knocked his feet out from under him. He fell against the stone floor, but managed to land a shallow slice on her cheek before she could block him. Wrenching the knife from his hand, Arya picked him off the ground and slammed him into her chair. It broke into kindling; pieces of wood flew everywhere. One sharp splinter cut her hand, distracting her enough that Jaqen managed to land a punch on her jaw. Little flashes of white seared across her vision, and her own knife careened into the air. Reeling, she spat blood in his face and jumped on top of him, grabbing his discarded knife while he latched onto her own. Arya dug her blade up against his gut just as he managed to snake his own to the vein behind her ear. They both froze.

"It seems, girl," Jaqen whispered into her hair, "we are at an impasse."

"My lady? Is everything all right?" The voice of her steward, Nathin Tyrell, carried from beyond her door.

She looked at Jaqen and surveyed her ruined room. "I'm quite fine," she called back.

"Are you sure?" The poor boy sounded worried. Arya mentally sighed. He wasn't cut out for this kind of work; she employed him more as a favor to his mother than anything else.

According to the code they had established, "positively" was the signal for him to call backup. She eyed Jaqen, who stared back serenely. She'd forgotten how bright his eyes were. "Absolutely," she yelled.

His muffled footsteps retreated down the tower's steps, leaving Arya in what was still an untenable situation. She sighed. Gods, the whole thing was a mess. She had the feeling that her adversary could sit like this for hours if he had to. The idea made her cringe. Careful not to move overmuch, she looked him hard in the face.

"Jaqen, if you promise not to kill me, could we both put our knives down and you can tell me what the hell you want?" she asked.

There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "What does a Man get from that?"

She thought for a moment. "I've got a lovely bottle of aged Tyroshi pear brandy to talk over."

He chuckled and twisted out from under her, taking both knives with him. "A luxury for what occasion?"

She stared at him as he threw back both of her knives and sat down on the windowsill. Then she grinned and wiped the blood from her cheek. "Worthy of a meeting between old friends, I suppose."

His eyes glittered unnervingly as Arya, careful to keep a watch on him, fetched the wine and goblets from her cupboard. She poured an equal measure into each cup, then handed one to the assassin gingerly. He sipped deeply, his eyes never leaving her. "Friends," he murmured.

She leaned against the wall, unnerved. "I would assume so."

"And why ever would a girl assume that?"

Arya scowled at him and began polishing her knives against her tunic vigorously. Never mind it was silk and brand new, Nathin could yell at her about it later, as well as about the state of her room.

When the knives were mirror-bright, she flung them into the doorframe behind her and turned back to Jaqen. "Because, you idiot, you could've killed me with a blow dart from the other side of the courtyard if you wanted to. The window was open, you'd have had a clear shot. And you didn't. You could've killed me eighteen times in that fight, yet you didn't. So why are you here?"

He put down his goblet but didn't say anything.

"Is there even a contract on me?"

Finally, he nodded. "One of the magisters of Pentos thought a girl imperiled his operations here overmuch."

She sipped her brandy. "Tameus?" she asked, naming a magister that Sansa's people had caught kidnapping Westerosi fishermen for slavery. Arya had been deciding which of her agents she was going to send after him.

Jaqen inclined his head.

"That makes sense. What doesn't make sense" - she raised her eyebrow - "is that you haven't killed me yet."

Jaqen made a noncommittal noise and traced the enamel on his goblet. Arya resisted the urge to ask him again; it really wasn't in her interests to annoy him.

"Is a girl going to marry Ser Gendry?" he finally asked.

Arya started, spilling some of her brandy. "How...you miserable camel, what does that have to do with anything?"

Jaqen looked out at the lights of King's Landing behind him, but said nothing.

"I...no, I'm not, if you really want to know."

"Mmm."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Mmm."

The two of them hung in suspended silence for a few moments, occasionally sipping at the brandy. Arya couldn't taste it.

Finally, Jaqen set his goblet down and stretched. "A Man thinks... a Man thinks that perhaps a girl will not die tonight."

Arya frowned, puzzled despite herself. "Isn't that sacrilege? If Tameus paid, don't you have to kill me?"

Jaqen shrugged. "Perhaps the Many Faced One likes a girl too much."

"Perhaps you like me too much."

Jaqen looked at her for a moment, still grinning. Then he slipped back out of the window, back into the night.

meet